


In the Captain's Quarters

by lori (zakhad), zakhad



Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [11]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 09:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18547063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/zakhad
Summary: Originally two separate vignettes. Decided to put them together, as they are as close to PWP as I ever get.





	1. A Meriteur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited, to fit into the new series a little more seamlessly. I rewrote part of the story significantly. Getting all the shorter pieces in place before tackling the rewrite of the next long fic in C&C.

_O Beauty, out of many a cup_  
_You have made me drunk and wild_  
_Ever since I was a child,_  
_But when have I been sure as now_  
_That no bitterness can bend_  
_And no sorrow wholly bow_  
_One who loves you to the end?_  
_And though I must give my breath_  
_And my laughter all to death,_  
_And my eyes through which joy came,_  
_And my heart, a wavering flame;_  
_If all must leave me and go back_  
_Along a blind and fearful track_  
_So that you can make anew,_  
_Fusing with intenser fire,_  
_Something nearer your desire;_  
_If my soul must go alone_  
_Through a cold infinity,_  
_Or even if it vanish, too,_  
_Beauty, I have worshiped you._

_Let this single hour atone  
For the theft of all of me. _

~ from "August Moonrise", Sara Teasdale

~^~^~^~^~

Deanna sensed Jean-Luc's approach and went to stand in the middle of the main room, to be waiting when he come home. Into his quarters -- her mind substituted 'home' all the time now, then she'd catch herself and correct it. He stopped as the door closed behind him and looked around, then tossed the padd on the table as he advanced.

She felt the emotional shift from brooding pensiveness to the beginnings of curiosity as he tallied up the ways the atmosphere she'd created differed from the norm. Lights simulating candlelight, with the help of actual candles, tall white pillars arranged in trios on the end tables and on the desk and the dining table. The absence of anything edible, that might indicate she'd made dinner. Her deep blue robe, possibly covering either nudity or any number of modes of dress. The closed shutters blocking the view of the planet they were orbiting, and its sun, and any other feature of its solar system.

She knew it would take something out of the ordinary to provide a real distraction, a needed break from tension. This was a mission on which she as a counselor could do little more than observe -- the engineering staff was helping a Federation member world with repairs to their weather net, and there had been technical complications resulting in rising tempers. Due to the faltering satellite control grid, a devastating storm had blown up in the southern hemisphere and caused serious damage to one of their cities. At least most of the inhabitants were able to evacuate before the brunt of it struck. Now the government demanded explanations for how this could have happened while the _Enterprise_ was supposedly fixing the net, and blustered about secession. Jean-Luc was negotiating for peace once more and fighting the prelate's adamant refusal to accept that chance had more to do with it. She'd gone with him earlier in the day and seen first-hand what he was up against -- the prelate had ignored her completely. No one but the 'man in charge' would do. She could sense Jean-Luc's usual immersion in the task at hand and knew he would hardly sleep, if he found no distraction from his thoughts.

If she could pull off this evening's 'entertainment', it would give temporary respite from the promise of further conflict tomorrow. 

He removed comm badge and pips as she watched. When he tilted his head, signifying piqued interest he knew he didn't have to voice, she unfastened his jacket, her movements leisurely and not at all seductive. Peeling it off and dropping it on the back of a chair, she then pulled up his shirt. She left it bunched under his arms, and he took it off.

"You're not hungry?" he asked.

She met his eyes and nodded, smiling as her eyes dropped to his bare chest. It made him snort derisively, but it amused him and stirred arousal.

"I'm sorry about what happened with the prelate earlier," he said, reaching for her. She backed out of his reach, the hem of the robe brushing the tops of her feet. Startled, he hesitated and questioned with his eyes.

"Do you trust me, Jean?"

"Absolutely." He meant it, in spite of the questioning he didn't voice.

Deanna smiled and stepped forward again. She traced a circle around his right nipple with a fingertip. "Excellent," she whispered, taking a handful of chest muscle and leaning to kiss him, full-mouthed and engaging his tongue with hers. She broke away when she sensed his arousal beginning to overtake his weariness. "I want to share something with you."

"What do you wish to share?" His lips moved against her cheek lightly. He wasn't hungry, just weighed down with the things he'd been thinking and doing, though that was lessening more all the time.

"I'll show you."

"Show me," he echoed.

"Yes. Before I do -- go get rid of the uniform and put on your robe. I'll start when you return. If it makes you too uncomfortable, ask me to stop. Otherwise, I'd like you to sit there, on the end of the couch nearest the bedroom door, and just. . . watch."

"Not participate?"

"I'm sure you'll know when you should do something," she murmured, nipping his earlobe then turning away to avoid distracting him from changing clothes.

Anticipation outstripped weariness, and gained ground as he took shirt and jacket and went to comply with her imposed dress code. She smiled and retrieved what she'd put on the floor out of sight under an end table.

When he returned and sat down, the beginnings of his physical arousal were making themselves known. Even if she couldn't see them for the gray robe, she knew the accompanying emotions well enough. She studied him a moment, lean and strong, backlit by the candles on the end table next to him -- she wanted him, and fed the longing.

"I want to show you what I would have done tonight, if you had stayed out late as you did last night," she murmured.

She was rewarded by the raising of his head, the barely-audible intake of air, and the inward spiral of curiosity to tension of an entirely different sort than what he'd brought home with him. A dozen heartbeats later, she sensed what she'd hoped for. His focus had shifted. He eagerly waited to see what happened next.

Deanna kept her breathing even and ran a calming exercise through her mind before sitting on the other end of the couch. She couldn't be sure he would appreciate what she dared on any level, because she doubted even he would know whether he would. She'd seen nothing so far to suggest that he might. But everyone had fantasies -- men were prone to entertaining the sort she was about to try, from all she'd heard. Some even did it in public. Even at receptions or official Starfleet functions, in the privacy of their minds while staring out a viewport or paying too much attention to a drink -- the people she could have embarrassed over the years! Though Jean-Luc hadn't been the sort to do it in public, she was certain he had indulged in his fair share of fantasizing in private.

Sitting upright, she focused on the flame of one of the candles on the table close at hand, making herself believe she was alone. That would be increasingly difficult but at the moment it was doable. She gathered the shirt to her nose -- his, purloined from the back of a chair that morning before it could be put in the recycler -- and inhaled the scent of him from it. Closing her eyes, she imagined his touch, so sure and yet so gentle, his hands traveling her body -- she let her body respond to the imagined caresses and fell against the back of the couch. With one hand she followed the paths she told her mind his fingers were traveling, then pinched as she imagined his mouth on a nipple. While she let her other hand drift over her thigh and parted her legs, she moaned his name.

It turned out to be easier than she had guessed -- she brought herself to climax and only remembered his presence as she paused to contemplate which of her toys she should continue with. She heard his breathing, ragged and barely audible, but out of rhythm with her own and therefore detectable. Peering through her lashes, she let her head roll toward him as if in repose, and saw that he sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, entirely caught up in her performance. She lay a moment longer, letting her sensual pleasure dwindle more than she would have liked, and sensed at last his reaction. Leisurely pulling off the shirt heightened his tension even more. So far, so good. As she dropped the shirt next to her and fluffed her hair out, feigning casualness, her audience of one seemed to have forgotten to breathe. The bustier must have been an unexpected surprise.

Settling her shoulders into the cushion, she picked up the red shirt again and brushed her cheek with it. "Jean-Luc," she whispered, closing her eyes tightly. " _Meha'jalit sha naiv_. . . ."

Her murmurings in Betazoid served two purposes. He didn't know enough of the language to guess at what she said, and the translator was disengaged within his quarters to aid in her learning French. And, speaking to her imaginary Jean-Luc kept her focus there, on the fantasy lover now kissing down her shoulder and leaving a trail of tingling skin in his wake. Responding to the dream doing everything she wanted kept her from remembering the reality not two meters away on the end of the couch.

After choosing one of the three items from the end table and inserting it, she left rational thought behind and focused entirely on sensation. The soft, pliable appliance lengthened and went rigid as she worked it in slow circles, stimulated by her movements and the moisture. Sinking lower on the couch, she rocked her hips, closing herself in slow rhythmic thrusts over the shaft. It did its part, moving into the pressure rather than away. The next climax was better than the last, the buildup slower and more delicious, as her imaginary lover nuzzled against her neck and whispered endearments while continuing his slow rhythm of deep, gentle movements. She whispered his name, burying her face in the shirt again. In her mind, he had that soft light in his eye that said love.

Light, moist fluttering along the inside of her right knee made her open her eyes. Jean-Luc, kneeling between her feet, kissing her thigh -- unable to sit passively by and watch any longer. Just as she'd counted on. He ran a hand down her shin and kissed her knee again, gaining confidence. The robe slipped partially off one shoulder; most of his chest was visible. In the soft light it was easy to think of this as a dream -- exactly the atmosphere she'd wanted.

He inched up her thigh, eyes closed, and kissed the soft skin just below her hip open-mouthed, tasting. His tongue moved against her, the slight roughness and pressure of it making her already-unsteady breathing falter. He lingered there, the tip of his nose pressing against her thigh and his breath flowing across her moist skin. Almost panting, he waited until he regained a minimum of composure.

_Tell me what would please you, déesse._

The thought, accompanied as it was by a surge of raw desire, almost made her climax again.

She removed the toy -- a moist sucking noise resulted, and the familiar odor of her arousal became obvious. His eyes drifted up to her face, looking darker than usual in the dimness, catching the candlelight in them. It took a moment for her to adjust to the sight of him kneeling at her feet. Sliding to the edge of the cushion, she tipped her hips toward him suggestively.

A low, shuddering groan escaped her as he slid his hands beneath her, cupped her buttocks, and tasted her with a slow-moving tongue. Another moan when he sucked gently on labia and clitoris. She floated between her pleasure and his, allowing herself to become more responsive as she received feedback from him indicating such expression pleased him. His tongue exploring between light sucks occupied her until another slow climax shook her.

He left off the oral stimulation as she relaxed -- soreness in the knees, she recognized as he rose and sat on the edge of the couch next to her. She took up another item in her limited arsenal, a mid-range regenerator, and tended to the afflicted areas while he looked on with amusement and appreciation.

"It wasn't _that_ bad," he complained softly.

The regenerator joined her toy to her left on the end table. She flipped the edges of the robe over his knees.

"And since when are you interested in my staying clothed?"

"I wouldn't want to get carried away too soon. There's so much I'd like to do. . . . Are you here, or not? What happens next depends on whether I'm still fantasizing or not," she whispered into his shoulder before tasting her way across the expanse of skin visible in the gap of the robe.

A moment passed slowly, then another. He was weighing the decision with more consideration than she would have guessed. And further surprised her by whispering, "No."

His response startled her. His emotions wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Too tempting to match and answer the yearning with her own -- she held herself in check and considered.

He wasn't here, he said. He wanted to see her fantasizing continue. He had hinted before that he expected she had fewer inhibitions than he; Betazoids in general usually expressed sexuality more openly than humans, and this human was more private than most. Nothing she'd done so far would upset other human lovers she'd had -- she'd been careful to keep it that way. She had anticipated participation from him, once the initial floor show had ended. Now she had to improvise.

"Then I must be imagining you," she murmured, trying to recover. "So if I wanted your hand on my shoulder. . . ."

Before she finished the sentence, his hand conformed to the curve of her shoulder, the warmth of his palm radiating through the shirt. Her lips met his. Brief, warm, mere contact of skin to skin -- he made a quiet sound that sounded like a plea, matching what he felt. But he sat unmoving, enduring her closeness without acting on his own desire.

"Do you love me?" She punctuated the question with another kiss.

"Yes," he breathed. "Oh, yes."

"Trust me?"

"Always." The whisper felt hot against her lips.

Slipping her fingers under the lapels of the robe, she pushed it off the rest of the way, and he followed the movement with his arms, letting the robe slide off and fall around him. She took a long look at him, naked, hands open and arms out as if beseeching her to come fill them. His erection bobbed slightly as if seconding the motion.

Her fantasy -- she wondered what she should do first. So many things to try, but only one of him, with a finite amount of energy. This should be something he could enjoy without hesitation or discomfort.

She met his gaze, smiling, letting the anticipation show and even licking her lips thoughtfully as she studied his body. Flat stomach, faint lines of what she'd heard humans call a washboard. He was still, even when she ran a diffident hand down the small of his back and over his left buttock.

Running a hand down his jaw, she took note of the mildly-embarrassed smile before kissing it. She imagined him putting his arms around her, leaning into the bond, and they went around her.  She pushed him against the back of the couch and ran her hands over his chest, as he went back to anticipation. Kissing him, she wrapped fingertips in chest hair and flicked his nipples with her thumbnails.

She wanted to please him, desperately. Sometimes she wondered if he ever had a thought for himself -- she'd been living with him for more than four months now, and he seemed content to let her do as she pleased, asking little, demanding nothing. 

Another pass over his shoulders with her hands, and then she came up against him, navel to navel. A slow grind of hips to hips made him clench his fists and shudder; his cock felt warm and smooth against her abdomen. The hardness of it renewed her desire -- not to mention the sexual tension rising from him.

_Close your eyes. Let your hands do what they wish._

The immediate reaction startled her. She caught her breath, waited for his arms to loosen again, which they did some seconds later, and moaned under the pressure of fingers kneading her thighs and pulling her against him.

Lips to his again, she took her time tasting him, pulling at his lip gently. Deanna nibbled down his neck, across his collar bones, painstakingly down his chest, tweaking chest hairs in her fingertips and his nipples in her teeth. She paid attention to the changes in his reactions, and consequently slowed her progress the lower she went. When she finally slid to the floor and knelt between his knees, she looked up at his face. Unexpectedly, his eyes met hers.

She was caught, and couldn't move. The ardor in his eyes, smoldering and intense, shouldn't have come as a surprise -- she could sense what accompanied it. The emotions were familiar, but not from him, and seeing him look at her this way could catch her off guard and stun her into witlessness.

"I thought this was _your_ fantasy," he murmured.

"You didn't keep your eyes closed."

He smiled and closed them again. 

She took a moment to recover from the interruption. Stood up on her knees, and addressed the erection in front of her with her mouth, his tension skyrocketing as he gasped and his fingers tried to rip the couch cushions. She hummed and worked her mouth farther down over it each time, cradling it on her tongue and applying suction. It was a little too much for him, so rather than tempt fate and end it too soon, she pulled off and stood up, reaching for one of the items on the end table. 

The warm oil on her palm felt good to her, and felt even better to him as she began to work her palm and fingers up and down. She moderated her grip as she sensed his reaction, and again stopped when she could tell he was edging too close to climax.

She stood up and cleared her throat quietly. "Look at me."

His eyes snapped open; he was breathing hard, and on the verge of leaping up from the couch. 

Deanna backed away slowly, stepped around the coffee table, and sidled to his desk. His eyes followed her. She turned to face the bookcase behind the desk. "What would you like to see?"

"I thought this was your fantasy?" he said, his voice roughened with breathless desire.

"I want to know what would inflame you to the point of losing control," she said, moving her hips to and fro -- she was caught up in his desire, and her own, and very much wanted sex. Wanted him, but climbing on and taking what she wanted was not unusual for them, and she wanted to know if there were other things he wanted that they hadn't yet done.

He was off the couch in seconds. His hands on the backs of her thighs, he pressed himself against her back and kissed her shoulder. Leaned forward, until she started to fold over the desk, and she felt his palms sliding up her buttocks. Sighing, she put her hands on the desk and tipped her hips -- as she anticipated he pressed in from behind eagerly. His hands tightened on her hips, and after a tentative first thrust he started to move in and out, picking up speed as she was so wet with anticipation and need. She leaned back, turning her heels slightly outward, pushing on the desk to brace -- he was starting to be forceful about it. 

He wanted, needed to go faster, harder, and she moaned a little -- encouraged him by tightening down on him every so often, moving her hips slightly and enjoying his fervor and passion. His movement became somewhat erratic; he paused, holding back, until the urge to come had passed. Then resumed eagerly plunging into her, the sounds of her moans and the slap of skin the only sounds for a while. 

He came, finally, almost stumbling against her. Four little frantic shoves and a grunt, and he was done. She wasn't, she ached for more, and as he withdrew she leaned against the desk and contemplated which of the toys she would find most fulfilling. He stepped in to hold her, kissing her, sweaty and hot to the touch, and then suddenly pulled away -- she watched him go to the couch and return with the toy she'd used before. Stepping in between her legs, he slid it into her without preamble, his other arm going around her to pull her into a kiss. 

He moved the vibrator in and out with nearly as much fervor as he had, holding her against him, whispering -- come, come -- she did, and he continued, knowing that she would enjoy it. She let herself lean back against his arm and enjoyed the sensation of being tended to by a man who knew how to please her, squirming and enjoying the ride. Crying out, she trembled through another climax; he pulled out the vibrator and let it fall to the floor, holding her in his arms. 

"Thank you," he murmured. His lips brushed her throat, as he held her tightly. 

"Mmm." Deanna chuckled and draped her arms around him. They spent a few moments recovering that way, until the edge of the desk began to be uncomfortable. "Very much worth the effort to replicate all those candles and the oil."

He backed away as she stood up on her own, and ran his hand over his head. "I wonder if -- "

When he didn't continue, she assessed his emotions and smiled. "It is completely fine to ask for whatever it is you would like to try."

"Not tonight," he said, proving that he was as satisfied and sated as she thought. "But perhaps next week."

"Mmmm, yes," she replied, liking the sense of his anticipatory excitement. She went to start blowing out candles and picking up toys. He helped, and went to join her in the bed.

She woke to the soft tone of the computer sounding a wake-up call. His wake-up call. Usually, it never got to do it -- usually he was up before the computer had to announce the time, and because of that it never did. He stirred, but rather than get up, he fumbled at the panel beside the bed, turned off the signal, and reached for her. She found her cheek brushing his shoulder as he kissed her hair.

"Jean?" She cleared her throat -- that would teach her to say a word before she finished waking up, she sounded like a sleepy frog.

He pulled her over as he rolled on his back, humming a little and settling her on his chest. Predictably, Captain Morning Person had something in mind. One of his hands announced it pretty plainly, groping its way down her back to close on her upper thigh.

"If you're going to make yourself late I'll have to call the -- "

"Dee, sshh, I won't be late. There's plenty of time."

"You didn't eat last night. You should have breakfast."

"In a minute."

"It's going to take you more than -- "

"Shut up, dammit!"

She giggled at the grouchy exclamation, as she usually did when he swore at her toothlessly. "Especially if you do that again. Not exactly the way to seduce a woman, you know."

"Mmm, but I happen to know you think I'm irresistible. God knows why, but I've never been one to judge. _Patin_?"

She kissed him, with tongue as requested, but made it brief and crawled over him to get out of bed, completely aware of the effect it had on him. "Captain Morning Breath."

"Your fault."

"Be that as it may. . . ." She returned from a brief forage in the bathroom and brandished mouthwash like a fencing foil.

"Your form's all wrong," he exclaimed, swinging his legs out of bed. When he snatched at it, she yanked it out of reach and raced back to the bathroom. If he was going to be playful, she'd play.

The pursuit ended in the shower, where they took turns rinsing mouths and kissed under the sonics. He dressed at a leisurely pace, humming to himself, while she went about breakfast and threw on a robe before sitting down with him to eat. As usual, little was said. She thought about the night before, seeing him in so many states of undress and so many moods, comparing them to the officer he was turning into as his attention shifted to the day's activities.

" _Beau capitaine_ ," she murmured, drawing an irritated look from him. It faded to an affectionate smile.

"The prelate will probably be just as stubborn today as yesterday," he commented, as if continuing a conversation.

"This time, when you beam down, don't greet his wife."

The last bit of croissant hovered short of his lips as he raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Just a hunch. Try it. I know you think it's rude not to acknowledge her presence, but I think you'll notice a change in the prelate's behavior. And if it makes a difference, thank him for being courteous enough to ignore me, and apologize for your previous indiscretions."

Both eyebrows rose higher. "You think so?"

"They aren't human. They may be in the database, there may be an extensive listing of their customs and behaviors, but the database wasn't any help in aiding me at the Academy -- nothing prepared me for the things I learned about humans there."

He considered it for a few moments, eyes distant. "His wife follows him everywhere and never says a word. And you didn't, after greeting the prelate. . . . Why didn't you tell me yesterday?"

"It would have served little purpose -- I couldn't rescue yesterday's encounter, the damage was already done when you spoke to his wife. I assume you're going down after checking with Geordi. I'll meet you in the transporter room in twenty minutes. If their custom is to have mates follow them everywhere, perhaps it would be politic to follow it?"

He smiled, washed down the last of breakfast with coffee, and headed for the door, stopping long enough to kiss her cheek and fondle a breast. She heard him humming on the way and then the door closed behind him, cutting it off.

Her hands took care of putting on the uniform while she thought about last night, then about yesterday when the prelate's wife reacted to Jean-Luc's benign greeting with a measuring look, and the prelate with anger. And then the prelate had stared at her when she'd spoken. The computer records indicated that the Vrivians had a highly-structured society, roles defined very clearly by gender, and that offworlders should have as little to do with the opposite sex as possible -- Jean-Luc had defined 'as little as possible' as exchanging greetings and nothing more. Deanna suspected, now that she knew how they reacted, that the Vrivians considered any male-female interaction foreplay.

Which had annoyed her. The prelate's wife, whose name Deanna couldn't pronounce and didn't intend to try, had not been uninterested in Jean-Luc. Deanna had come up with the idea of distracting Jean-Luc as she had, but wondered now if it hadn't been some instinctual possessiveness coming to the fore.

No. More like insecurity. She had wanted to please him, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure herself that she could. 

At least she'd channeled that frustration with Jean-Luc's preoccupation into something more mutually satisfying than a game of 'find the real reason for the mood.' Living with someone seemed to affect her this way -- she relaxed, let her guard down, and found herself unconsciously reacting to her partner's emotional state, sometimes compensating for it. The curse of the empath.

Curse and blessing, she amended, smiling at her reflection in the mirror as she put her pips in her collar. Last night he had slept well, once he'd gotten to sleep -- his energy that morning had proved it.

She made the bed quickly, tossed the dishes in the recycler, and hurried out. In the transporter room, Jean-Luc waited with Geordi, Mendez, and a handful of engineering staff.

"Counselor," the captain said officiously.

"Sir," she replied, stepping up on the transporter pad. Hands behind her back, she waited, standing within arm's reach of him, the comforting, familiar presence of Captain Picard on the job settling her into her official persona.

As they materialized in the open area next to the Vrivian government offices, a stark white single-floor building, she turned with the group to await the approach of the prelate, his wife, and the usual accompanying assistants.

"He looks like he's in a lot better mood than he was yesterday," Geordi muttered.

"Because he knows how to deal with the prelate now," she murmured, glancing at the engineer. Geordi smirked; he wasn't fooled. But he turned away to watch the captain greet the prelate, and not greet the prelate's wife, and Deanna allowed a slight smile.

The group went forward, the engineers moving off with the assistants, leaving the captain and counselor to follow the prelate and his wife into the building. Jean-Luc glanced at her, smiling tight-lipped. _You were right. Thank you._

_Just doing my duty, Captain. As always._

A brief moment of amusement and slyness flitted across Jean-Luc's face before he composed himself and followed the prelate across the threshold into the interior. Wrinkling her nose, Deanna steadied herself with the thought that good and loyal officers would follow their captain into hell if necessary, and that she'd done so before, and that alien buildings that stunk like iodine-soaked fish guts weren't nearly so bad as the Borg.

She suspected, however, that they wouldn't have an appetite that night, either.

No matter. There were other things she could do with him -- or watch him do, since he'd been so generous as to offer. As he was so fond of quoting from his service record, Jean-Luc Picard was indeed trainable.

_Beau capitaine._


	2. Time and Youth

_Perhaps it is to feel strike_   
_the silver fish of her nakedness_   
_with fins sharply pleasant,my_

_youth has travelled toward her these years_

_or to snare the timid like_   
_of her mind to my mind that i_   
_am come by little countries to the yes_   
_of her youth._

_And if somebody hears_   
_what i say -- let him be pitiful:_   
_because i've travelled all alone_   
_through the forest of wonderful,_   
_and that my feet have sure known_   
_the furious ways and the peaceful,_

_and because she is beautiful_

~~ e.e. cummings

* * *

 

Sometimes, at night after the lights are out and we are at rest, we talk about nothing. She usually starts such conversations. I follow wherever she leads. It's interesting to me only in that it tells me something about her, about the wanderings of her thoughts.

But tonight I start the conversation. It's the end of another mission -- the Vrivians finally satisfied with the repairs to their satellite system and weather controls, we are able to depart, the good will between member world and Federation restored. And I can think now of the night she went to great lengths to please me, and I have questions.

She comes to bed in one of her own night shirts, pale green silk. She orders out the lights and arranges herself next to me, leaning to kiss my cheek, settling back on her pillow and arranging the covers over us. Her arm is lying with mine, her toes wiggling, her calf brushing mine as she moves.

I remember the candles, and her sensuality, and I want her again. She must sense it -- but she doesn't move. I'm hard thinking about her and all the ways she could find to please that carnal part of me she reawakened just a couple of months ago, but she remains still, sighing a little.

So I move. Shorts down, bunched around knees, and now the aching hardness brushes the sheets. I take it in my hand and glide my palm along it, my fingers around it. Soft, warm skin.

"Deanna," I murmur.

"Jean-Luc?"

Little miss innocence. She wants a game. "Tell me about sex."

A pause, while she tried to understand the request. In the meantime, my fingers tighten while I imagine they are not my fingers. Muscles tight against the urge to thrust, I stay still, like her. Still and patient and wishing it weren't the heel of my hand applying pressure and spreading the first bead of moisture slick against my palm.

"What do you want to know about sex?" she asks, and I know the game is afoot. Her voice becomes velvet.

"Describe for me the nature of sex."

"In many species, it's the favored method of procreation." She finds my hand, fingers pushing in between mine, and I can't move. "In some, the favored method of recreation. Normally it involves some form of penetration. The Bi'ka, for example, have two long hooks in addition to a penis, to keep them engaged while the female does its best to swim away from the male. The renKarii have penises that are three feet long and barely a quarter of an inch in thickness, even though they don't necessarily need so much length for penetration, because the females generally find the act repulsive and want no body contact with the male whatsoever. Andorians require a minimum of four in a reproductive unit -- the males couple with the females, who then couple with each other."

"What about humans?" I can't help tensing -- the sensation of thrusting into our hands whets my appetite. She pries my hand free, filling it with hers, palm to palm, as she moves over to lay on top of me. Now I'm too excited -- I can feel her through the silk, which caresses my abdomen and my penis, and it's too much, almost. I pull at the silk gown until I can feel skin and the coarse hairs through her panties, and she captures that hand as well. With both my hands pinned to the pillow over my head, she settles, her reply tickling my cheek.

"Humans are terribly fond of recreational sex, and personal preference is paramount. Some like to play bondage games. Some prefer same-sex intercourse, others enjoy threesomes, still others find various props of value. Some enjoy experimentation; some prefer more traditional methods. Did you know there are numerous papers written by non-humans about the variety and frequency of human sex? It's an interesting phenomenon to some species."

"I had no idea. Tell me more." She's wriggling her hips, slowly grinding into mine, pressing my hardness into her softness one excruciating millimeter at a time.

"One of my fellow exo-psychologists, Dr. Mailun, spent nearly a decade interviewing human Starfleet officers and wrote about the results. Humans, he says, are all at once the most flexible yet the most rigid in expression of their sexuality. Genetics dictates most aspects, yet the human mind can accommodate wide variances. Fetishes, for example -- certain humans find the sight of a bare foot stimulating. Others find wearing clothing traditionally worn by the opposite sex erotic. But very few individuals exhibit a broad spectrum of preferences -- "

A push, and I reach complete penetration, interrupting her monologue. She lifts herself just far enough to match her lips to mine. A teasing brush of tongue against tongue, and she continues, letting her words fall into my mouth.

"Most prefer a combination, of oral, and digital. . . ." Gripping her fingers, I push us over, careful not to land on her too heavily. She moves beneath me but only to get comfortable. ". . . and of course, penile penetration."

"So generalities are of little use. Such combinations and variants thereof must be determined by personal preference?"

"Ye-es," she gasps, one of her hands wrapping around the back of my head.

She isn't human, though she looks mostly so, and I find that internally, she becomes less so. There is a ring, muscles I'm guessing, halfway in. There is another just beyond it. The function of these muscular configurations remains unclear to me, something to do with childbirth, perhaps, but when she uses them on me it can drive me crazy. She grips me before I can withdraw, and unlike other times she refuses to ease up.

"You didn't use those before," I murmur, raising myself over her.

"In Betazoids, copulation can take hours." She pauses while I gather her breast in my mouth and pull at the nipple. "The male reaches the point of no return but relies on muscular contractions of the female for the release, which does not come unless she is satisfied."

"How?"

We are frozen there while she thinks. I'm held captive in tantalizing fashion, her breast in my hand, her hand on my neck playing with the ends of scant hair, one of her legs bent and hooking itself around the back of my calf.

"You enjoyed what we did the other night?"

The memory washes through me. I experience an involuntary spasm that pushes me in rather than pulling, as I had been. She reciprocates when I attempt to smother her with a kiss. Shivers tingle down the length of my spine. Still kissing her, I force my arms around her and push, push, until I feel a pop -- I've pushed past that second ring. Both her legs have wound themselves around my hips. I can feel her buttocks pressing my upper thighs, bumping my balls, and I can't do this any more.

She unwinds those constricting muscles as I pull free and tightens again with each thrust. I can't breathe while kissing and we end up panting together. The burning begins, the drive to immerse myself in her, and I know that unless I do something I won't be able to stop --

The burning. It's back. I pull free and sit up on my knees, her legs falling open, and the smell of her makes me twitch and itch for more. But the burning -- it's her, racing along beneath my skin, and I know that if I continue I'll lose my memory of what happens next.

I kiss her thigh. It makes her gasp. Rather than continue in that vein, I plunge into her and grab a nipple in my teeth. She writhes, cries out aloud, and the desire burns along my skin, spreading up from my groin, down my back, racing to the tips of my fingers and forcing my muscles into spasm.

Afterward, collapsed in limp, sated bliss, I sprawl across her and try to slow my breathing.  "Tell me about sex," I whisper in her ear through the tangle of her hair. "Tell me about your sex."

Her fingers flutter at the back of my neck. "I knew nothing about sex," she whispers. "And now I don't need to know anything else."

"Flattery. . . ."

"Preference. In sex, preference is everything."

I touch the controls beside the bed to bring up the lights. We have destroyed order. The covers are twisted and dangle off the bed, she has stretched herself languorously along the diagonal, her head upon my pillow, and I am beside her, up on one elbow.

"Preference," I echo, surveying her body. She has the silk gown up around her chest, bunched under her arms. Her skin glistens but is drying rapidly. She arcs her back, breasts rising, and smiles -- I have pleased her.

"There are two kinds of sex. The fulfillment of animal desires, casual sex, for which most humans form relationships of a less permanent nature. Some seem to prefer a semblance of love, of commitment, while others claim to enjoy the physical act without such semblance." She stretches again and puts an arm around my waist, breasts against my chest. "They can pretend permanence to make the sex more satisfying."

"And the second kind?"

"Sex as an expression of love. The best kind. Are you thirsty?"

"Hm, yes. And we should probably shower."

We rise to move into the bathroom, but I linger to watch her and follow after. She shakes her head as she stops in front of the shower, turns and reaches for me, kisses me, and I let my hands wander down her hips. A twist of my wrist. Her hair against my palm, my fingers find her clit, pass on either side of it, meet and slip easily inside, then out, then in. Then three fingers, the heel of my hand against that moist button that's responding so quickly to the stimulation. With my free arm I ease her into the shower and against the wall. The musky, potent fragrance of Deanna aroused fills the stall. She cries out again, moves her hips uselessly while my fingers find that first ring and the longest, my middle finger, traces the top edge repeatedly.

Her hands spread against my chest, her eyes closing, her head bumping the shower wall -- her skin flushes wonderfully. She swallows, I watch it run up and down her throat and kiss it while pushing the rest of the way in. And with my other hand, just with a single fingertip, I play with the clit, teasing it with touch.

She pushes against the wall, using my shoulders to brace herself, and I feel the muscles move around my fingers. A whisper of the burning skates down my back. She's enjoying this. I'm still flaccid, but it jerks once as if apologizing. I withdraw abruptly and grab her buttocks, picking her up, and her arms go around my neck.

I haven't done this before. She's played with me, teased me, but we've never done this in the bathroom. Until now. Backing out of the shower, I support her weight with one arm and grab at the towel rack. At the tiny counter next to the sink, I put her down on a towel, sweeping the clutter of toiletries into the basin out of our way. The second towel fell on the floor, which is just as well. To one knee, and plunging straight in with my tongue.

Fire kindles in my chest. She inches closer to the edge, opening herself for more and encouraging me. My lips close on her clit. My fingers plunge deep, seeking her pleasure, and my thumb anchors itself in the tight ring of her anus.

She shudders and blurts something in Betazoid. All at once her fingers dig into my shoulder, her heels hit the panels, her back arches, and the burning washes through me -- I suck and pull and grip her right thigh, holding fast until the spasms around my finger cease and the burning wanes. I rise and lean in, hands on her thighs, and she accepts a kiss eagerly.

"I'll have to suggest a shower more often," she murmurs.

"It was my suggestion." I love the feeling of her breasts brushing my chest hair as she moves to embrace me.

"I'll have to make you suggest a shower more often."

"I would like that."

"I also like this."

Over her shoulder, I see our reflection, the cloud of her hair beside my face, partially obscuring one eye. The straight line of indentations of her vertebrae down her pale, narrow back, and my arm, my fingers drawing runes of possession on her shoulder blade. The bunching of her shoulder muscles when she tightens her arms around me.

"I love this," I whisper, startling her rigid. "I love you."

She lets go slowly, then pushes close, her hands flat beneath my collar bones, her nose and mouth pressing my throat. Her head is turned; I can see now in the mirror just the leading edge of her profile, peering out from the mass of black curls -- her closed eye, her nose, her smile. Rapture.

"Preferences," I murmur.

Her eye has opened, I realize. She watches us in the mirror, as I've been doing, and her rapture doesn't diminish. "I love you," she breathes. With her breath, a ghost of the burning tickles my chest.

"Tell me about sex." I back away from the counter, taking her with me, and she dances on her toes into the shower, never leaving my arms.

"In what context?" She plays with the controls. With lukewarm water falling around us, she reaches for soap and begins with my scalp, lathering with her palms.

"In our context." Rather than copy her, I reach around and begin in the small of her back, spreading soap downward.

"A song without words," she says, her hands drifting down to lie idle on my shoulders.

"A poem," I murmur, closing my eyes against the water and tasting her cheek. "A poem. . . ."

We stand in the water. Her jaw moves under my hand; I open my eyes and find her waiting there, drawing me into hers, into the night brilliantly lit with the stars. I move my thumb over the splay of lines at the corner of her right eye. Crow's feet, they call it. Without makeup to hide them I notice the telltale tracks of entropy.

"Time, be kind," I whisper. "Herself and I know that you must have your way. Have it gently with ma belle -- but for beauty, understand, life (and also you) would end -- time, she's very beautiful."

She kisses me, and I know she is crying. She trembles in my arms. We wash, and rinse, and step from the shower to dry. She kisses me again before we leave the bathroom, and again as we re-make the bed.

She settles in my arms, and we are at rest. "Time," she breathes as she drifts into slumber. Her ribs rise and fall, push and give, my own respirations in a similar rhythm but just a second late.

I think about my life and adventures and all that I've learned. All that I have left to learn. I think about friendship and loss. I think about my father, raging against a blight that took half the harvest one year. About things that I cannot change, about things that I must change. I feel the push of her rib cage against mine.

"Time, be kind," I plead, touching the curve of her waist beneath the covers, then closing my eyes in hopes of sleep.


End file.
